The Privilege of Doing
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: "It's a persistent pounding on your front door that wakes you at two in the morning." My version of how Greg met Sherlock. Includes Greg's daughter as an OC. No slash. Rated for drug use/withdrawal.


_**Got bit hard by this plot bunny and just had to ****write it. I have sort of wondered about how Sherlock and Lestrade met, so I wrote my own little backstory for them. Lestrade, in some scenes, does talk to Sherlock like he's a child. Also, I wanted to go with some of the original canon and give Sherlock a drug addiction. I know he's addicted to cocaine in the original stories, but honestly, heroin withdrawal was more interesting to write, and I think Sherlock would want to slow his mind down when he's not working rather than speed it up with cocaine.**_

_**I also wanted a little backstory on Lestrade's family. I like the idea of him being a dad, someone who cares deeply about his family, but his wife is not a very nice lady, so he has troubles all the time even though he is devoted. I just kind of made up his family, but his daughter is the most important. Okay. Done rambling now.  
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_**Warnings: no language; depictions of drug withdrawal; no slash. Not Britpicked or betaed.  
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_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. I only own my OC.**  
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><p><em>Even if it's a little thing, do something for those who have need of a man's help,<em>

_something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it._

_For remember, you don't live in a world all alone._

_Your brothers are here too._

_-Albert Schweitzer_

It's a persistent pounding on your front door that wakes you at two in the morning. You grumble as you crawl out of bed and shuffle groggily across the flat. (Not your house. Not while you and Gwen are separated.) You crack the door open, the chain keeping it partly closed. In the corridor stands a young man, grungy, pale, with a shock of dark, lank curls. His pale eyes are terribly bloodshot. He seems familiar, but you're tired, so you simply ask, "What do you want? 's two AM."

"You… you're…" he stammers, "you're Sgt. Lestrade, right?"

"Yeah, so what? Why?"

"You arrested me the other day for drugs possession… heroin."

It clicks a bit. He doesn't look much better today than he did then.

"I've only been here two weeks," you say, "How did you find me?"

The young man leans on the doorframe, replying sluggishly, "You gave me… your card, and… and you told me to call you if I… needed anything. I just… I figured out how to find you because… I need your help."

"For what?"

"To get clean."

You sigh heavily, saying, "Y'know, there's rehab for that sort of thing."

"My… my brother's tried it all. It doesn't work. He doesn't care if I'm clean. He just doesn't want me to embarrass him or Mummy. You… you care. I know it."

There is a moment of indecision. The officer in you is cataloguing him as a threat: he could hurt you, rob you. However, your fatherly instincts rise up bigger, seeing the poor, lost, scared little boy in that young man on your doorstep. You are about to let him in when he just collapses in the hall. You swear quietly and quickly unchain the door to bring him inside. He's tall, but he weighs next to nothing. That's what heroin does, of course. It doesn't take much effort to pick him up and settle him on the couch. You fetch a small bin to put by him in case he throws up. Thankfully, you've already some time off due an altercation with a colleague who made a crack about your wife.

"Daddy?"

You freeze. How could you forget?

"Daddy, what was that noise?"

In the door to the other room stands a small but willowy eleven-year-old girl, her short blonde hair mussed by sleep, rubbing her eyes. You move closer to her, saying, "Georgie, princess, don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

Your daughter doesn't move. She just stands there until she looks at the couch.

"Who's that man?" she asks, starting to move closer.

You quickly but gently grab her arm, whispering, "He's… um… come on…"

You take her back into the room, tuck her back into bed, and explain, "Look, Georgia… that man is sick from doing drugs. He came to me because I'm a police officer, and he knows I can help him. His own family doesn't want to help him, so I'm going to."

"Why won't his family help? Don't they care about him?" she asks, confused.

You chew your lip briefly, before answering, "Not as much as they should. But he's gonna get very sick for the next few days, maybe a week, and I'm not sure I want you to see it. In the morning, I'll call your mother so you can stay with her 'til it's over, alright?"

"No, daddy! I don't want to go back with her! I want to stay here with you!"

"Sweetie, he's gonna be very sick, and he might get angry with-"

"But you said his own family doesn't care," she pouts, "So he needs another family to care for him. We can do that. I know we can. Please let me stay."

Her honey brown eyes are big and pleading, and you heave a sigh, giving in as she grins and settles down to go back to sleep. She's always had you wrapped around her little finger, ever since the day she was born and you first laid eyes on her. She's your little princess… and damn it all if she's not just like you. Daddy's little girl. You should've known that she wouldn't be so easy to deter, not when she got your stubbornness. You sigh more quietly, returning to the sitting room. The young man (Holmes, you think his name is,) is out cold, breathing shallowly. He's managed to achieve a minor overdose, nothing life threatening. Perfect. You just take up a seat in your chair and turn on the telly, keeping the volume low. The next week would not be pretty. Heroin is not an easy habit to kick. Addicts form a high level of dependency, and the withdrawal symptoms are horrible.

As you watch him sleep, it suddenly kicks in exactly who he is. You remember the day you arrested him, he accurately told you of the problems with your wife, the ages of your children, even what you had for breakfast. The man is brilliant, even when he's high as a kite. You hate to think of him throwing it all away on heroin. A mind like that… he could do anything he wanted with that brain. Instead, he's lying on an estranged police sergeant's couch hopped up on heroin. The mere thought has you shaking your head.

Holmes wakes up an hour later, moaning and retching slightly. You rise from your chair and sit beside him, pulling the bin closer. He promptly vomits into it, his apparently empty stomach bringing up little more than bile. You place a hand on his back, just resting it there as comfort, knowing this will only get so much worse before it gets better. In this light, it's easy to pretend this man is only a child. A lost, scared child that only needs a bit of love and attention to recover.

xXxXx

You send Georgia to the small shop at the corner for some soups and a few other groceries. She can't be left alone with Sherlock (for he told you his first name today) just yet. He's still capable of getting up and moving around. There's a chance he could try to leave the flat, but he actually just sleeps the whole time Georgia is gone.

You watch your daughter put everything away in its proper place when she returns, occasionally needing a step stool for the higher cabinets. She's becoming too mature too quickly, heard too many of her father's horror stories, been left to fend for herself by her mother too often. Whenever Gwen was upset with you, she also took it out on Georgia, all but ignoring her while doting on their two sons, Geoffrey (7) and Graham (5). Georgia only retreats further to you every time she does it.

"Daddy, you never told me his name," she says matter-of-factly, "I mean, I'm helping you care for him, so it's only fair I know his name, isn't it?"

"His name is Sherlock Holmes," you answer.

"That's a funny name," she giggles.

"I suppose it is, but then he's a funny bloke. You'll see when he's awake."

"Talking about me like I'm not here," Sherlock suddenly says, "Unoriginal."

You look at him. He's already sweating profusely and shivering finely.

"Good, you're awake. Here-" you hand him a cup filled with red juice, "-drink this. You're sweating and you'll be doing worse in days to come. Drink it."

He glares but sips the juice anyway. You can hear Georgia in the kitchen making sandwiches for herself and you. Sherlock gives her a funny look when she returns.

"Who's the midget?"

"I am not a midget!" she answers indignantly, "I'm eleven! Almost twelve in a month!"

"Why are you here? Why hasn't Lestrade sent you away? Surely you don't want your daughter around a heroin addict."

"_Recovering_ heroin addict," you correct.

"I wouldn't leave," she explains, "My mum's mean to me when she's mad at Dad. All because I remind her of him. I'd rather stay with Daddy and be your family. He said yours doesn't care. Do you like soup? I bought chicken noodle."

Sherlock seems stunned for a moment before looking away and deferring to you. You nod at Georgia, and she goes to make the soup. In the meantime, you help Sherlock to his feet and into the toilet. It's like caring for an overgrown child. Unfortunately, the toilet is a familiar place. He doesn't get down much soup before he has to vomit. You just coax him into sipping more juice, which he manages to keep down.

It gets worse as the days go on. When Monday rolls around, you've barely slept twelve hours since Sherlock arrived on Friday night, and you've got to get Georgia ready for school as Sherlock borderline convulses on the couch. Thankfully, there's another girl from her school in the building whose mother agrees to take her for a few days. (You give the woman ten pounds as gratitude.)

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks like death. He complains of bone deep pain and cramps. He is plagued by chills, cold sweats, and a fever. His eyes and nose are running constantly. He can spend an hour at a time in the bathroom, and there have already been a few messes to clean up. It doesn't scare you off. You're a sergeant with Scotland Yard but, more importantly, you have children. You fear nothing anymore. Sherlock seems conflicted, like he wants to be grateful but still feels embarrassed or shamed by his condition. It's not as if he didn't know this would be hard, possibly the hardest thing he'd ever do. However, he never asks for the drugs, as if he knows he would disappoint you if he did. It's a comforting thought.

The young man spends much of Tuesday half-naked with his face in the toilet, although you aren't sure how he has anything to vomit up. You just sit beside him on the floor, rubbing his thin back through the blanket you placed over his bare shoulders, smoothing the lank curls back from his sweaty forehead. You coax him into sipping some water, but nothing else, not with the way his stomach is rebelling against his body. At one point, he gets an hour's respite from the nausea and simply breaks down, crying weakly. You carefully draw him into your arms, your back against the bathtub. Sherlock is nearly skeletal as you pull him onto your lap, still weighing next to nothing. He simply tucks his head under your chin, against your neck, his body shivering against yours.

"Come on," you mutter, "You're alright, Sherlock. You're gonna be okay. I promise."

"I'm not," he whines quietly, "I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have done this to-"

"Hush, you. I'm helping you because I want to, because I care," you tell him, "You're a brilliant young man, and you deserve to have someone care about you for something other than a reputation, someone who cares about you _for you_. Now, tell me how you're feeling. Stop if you feel ill again."

"I… I think I pulled some abdominal muscles," he says slowly, quietly, "It just… burns. I'm just cold and achy and ill and miserable. I'd be better off dead."

"No, Sherlock," you respond firmly, "you are not better off dead. You're gonna get through this, and you're gonna be fine. You're gonna be a great man. We'll get through this. I promise."

He curls in closer to your body, still shaking. You hear the front door open and Georgia calling for you, so give a half-shout of, "In here," to guide her. She finally pushes open the door, wrinkling her nose as she does so. It can't smell too pleasant, but you're somehow accustomed to it for now. (However, Sherlock is getting a wash as soon as he is able.)

"Hi, Daddy. Hi, Sherlock," Georgia says, "Do you need anything?"

"Yeah, just another cup of water for Sherlock, and maybe a mug of soup for me, Princess."

She nods and leaves. You sigh, still feeling bad for allowing her to be involved in all this. Georgia comes back shortly after, a glass of cold water in one hand and a steaming mug of soup in the other. She places them both on the floor where Sherlock can't conceivably knock them over, then comes over and hugs both of you at once. There is a smile on her face when she pulls away, and you suddenly realize that there's nothing she would actually rather be doing than helping you heal Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you need a break, Dad?"

"No, I'm good for now."

Georgia just keeps smiling, giving both you and Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek before leaving.

"Only eleven and she's already a better person than me," Sherlock huffs.

"Maybe… but you're getting there, mate. One step at a time."

At this point, Sherlock has to lunge back to the toilet and starts heaving again. You pull yourself to your feet, your joints popping, grab your mug, and sit beside him again, resting your free hand on his back. You take a sip of the soup. It slides easily down your throat, sits warmly in your belly. It's a while before Sherlock's heaving stops and he asks to lie back down on the couch; you have to carry him out to it. Georgia sits on the floor in front of the telly, doing her homework. (Geoff and Graham would have torn the place down by now.) She watches you deposit him on the couch and drape him with blankets, trying to coax him into drinking some more juice to rehydrate. She looks curious. After a few moments, she gets to her feet and rushes to her room, returning with an old stuffed bear. It was never her favourite, but it was still well loved. Now, she reverently carries it out and holds it out to Sherlock. He eyes it suspiciously before asking, "What is that?"

"It's a bear, silly," she answers, "I want you to have him for now… to help you sleep. Stuffed bears are always good to help you sleep. This one's very good. I called him Barney."

When Sherlock doesn't move, she huffs quietly and physically lifts his arm and places the bear under it. He seems almost perplexed by it, but Georgia is smiling.

"There. You should be able to sleep now, Sherlock. I know you haven't lately."

The young man shifts slightly and looks at the toy in his arms, then back at your daughter. He murmurs a quiet, "Thank you, Georgie," and nestles in closing his eyes. A look of satisfaction comes over her face, and she settles back on the floor to finish her homework. You sit beside her, watching her do a history worksheet. She works quietly and efficiently, and she finishes it quickly, grinning up at you when she does. You smile back and pull her into your lap like you did when she was little. She settles against your chest. Your little princess.

"Georgia," you say softly, "I am so proud of you. You've been such a help even though you could've been playing with your friends or doing anything else but helping me take care of a sick stranger. I promise we'll do something fun when all this is over."

"I just like spending time with you, Daddy, doing whatever you like to do. You like to help people, and that's good enough for me," she answers, "Of course, if you really, _really_ wanted to take me to the movies or the zoo or something, that's alright, too."

Her response is calculated and a bit grown up, and it makes you chuckle.

"Well, I guess we can do that," you say, "Now then, if you're all finished your homework, I reckon that means you can have some ice cream, yeah?"

Sherlock appears unconscious on the couch, so you throw caution to the wind and put Georgia under arm to carry her into the kitchen as she shrieks with laughter. Sherlock doesn't stir. You don't even get bowls for the ice cream. You just carry the carton into the sitting room with two spoons. She climbs back into your lap, where the two of you just eat ice cream as she tells you about her day and school and life. She even asks about some of your cases and what you do at the Yard. At eleven, you finally manage to get her into bed so she would be ready for school in the morning. You, however, return to your chair in the sitting room, set your alarm on your mobile, and push the chair back to go to sleep.

Wednesday is another bad day. Sherlock is feeling the repercussions of yesterday's copious vomiting in the form of severe abdominal sprain and multiple cramps throughout his body. You have a heating pad that you turn on and place on his stomach. He curls up into a tight ball around the heat source, shaking and sweating. You just keep getting him to sip juice and carefully brush the dark hair from his pale forehead. Thankfully, he does not have to vomit today. However, his eyes dart around the room in anxiety, hands twitching on the blankets. He sleeps fitfully for another few hours, during which Georgia comes home from school.

"How is he, Daddy?" she asks.

"He's alright. Just sore and achy is all."

She is placated by the answer and goes to change out of her uniform just as Sherlock wakes up. He whimpers as he tries to sit up, and you rush to his side, pushing him back down gently.

"No," he says through gritted teeth, "I… I need the toilet."

You quickly change tack, gingerly helping him to his feet. He is hunched over and sways dangerously for a moment, so you take his arm. It is nearly skeletal, fragile. You half-carry him to the toilet and allow him to stagger in on his own. You then hover by the door, worried that he might pass out on the bathroom floor. He emerges a few moments later, perfect conscious. You help him back to the couch, placing the heating pad back at his abdomen. He remains there until evening, still only able to sip some juice. However, he remains quiet as you and Georgia make dinner, even if it's a really simple one. Just spaghetti. It's nice, though, another thing for the two of you to bond over.

After you finish eating, you start washing up the dishes as Georgia returns to her previous position on the floor to do some homework. The only break she takes is to get Sherlock another cup of juice. It's good that he's drinking that much, rehydrating his body. When you return to the sitting room, he whimpers softly, clearly still in pain. You do the only thing you can think of.

You've done it for your children whenever they were sick or had a bad day. You sit on the couch, pillowing Sherlock's head in your lap. He stiffens at first but relaxes when you run your fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. Then, once he's settled, you quietly begin to hum 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' so that only he can hear, the same way you'd done it for your children. Georgia turns to look at you and smiles softly. You smile back, still humming. Eventually, Sherlock's entire body relaxes, seemingly no longer wracked by the day's painful cramps. He nestles further into his cocoon of blankets, his breathing finally evening out.

"Daddy, can I sleep out here with you and Sherlock tonight?" Georgia asks.

"I dunno, princess…"

"Please?"

"Oh, alright then. But only tonight."

She grins and runs to grab her blankets and sits pressed to your side, and you wrap an arm around her. It may be a bit screwed up, but it's the most content you've been in a while. You may have collected a sad, nearly ruined young man, been separated from your wife and two boys, dragged your only daughter into your crazy job, shown her a world you hoped she'd never see… but for now you are happy. Happy with the odd little family you've become, if only for a short time. You lean your head back against the cushion and drift off to sleep.

xXxXx

After he's through his withdrawal at the end of the week, Sherlock leaves without a word. Georgia is quite put off by it, moping for about a month until her birthday. Gwen doesn't acknowledge the anniversary of the birth of her first child, but Georgia beams when she receives a package from 'SH'. When she tears open the box, there's a nice little card nestled on top of some newspaper. The only marks it bears other than the simple printed greeting are the words, "_Happy 12__th__ Birthday, Georgia. You're not a midget anymore_," in an elegant but messy script. Underneath all the newspaper was another note that read, "_I'm sorry I took Barney with me when I left. I just wanted to keep a tangible memory of my time with you and your dad. I hope you like him as much as you liked Barney,_" in the same writing. At the bottom of the box, carefully wrapped up in newspaper, was a green stuffed dragon. She squealed loudly and clutched the toy to her chest.

Now, Georgia is eighteen and just starting university. (She wants to study criminal justice and psychology. You're so proud of her.) However, she still sleeps with that beloved toy of her youth. She named the stuffed dragon 'Norbert', after the dragon from Harry Potter. She is still living with you, after your final separation and divorce from your wife. On this day, in early October, the two of you visit Sherlock's grave. He died four months ago. Georgia carries Barney in a huge plastic bag (actually an evidence bag she nicked from Molly), holding him reverently. Her lip trembles, and she tries to hide it. She fails.

"Here, Uncle Sherlock," she says shakily, using the title you knew he secretly loved, "John let me look around for Barney so I could bring him for you. Seemed to think it was funny you kept a stuffed bear. Oh, it made him smile, though. He hasn't really smiled since you died. None of us believe you're a liar or a fake and… we love you. Some people, me and John included, think you might not be dead. So if you're not, you'd better get your skinny arse home soon. I… I miss you, Uncle Sherlock."

Georgia sets the bag on the ground in front of the grave, bear nestled safely within, and steps back. You clear your throat. She squeezes your arm reassuringly, her eyes wet.

"Um… we miss you, Sherlock. We really do," you say quietly, "You… you're… you were a part of our family. Small and screwed up though it is, you were a part of it. Like… you were like a son to me, no matter how much you irritated and aggravated me. You were a better son than the ones that were really mine. And like Georgia said, if you're really alive somewhere, for some reason, just come home soon so I can hit you for doing this."

She giggles beside you but sobers quickly. You feel her grab your arm and rest her head on it. You both remain for some minutes, just looking at the simple black stone and gold letters. When you finally leave, Georgia turns around after a few metres to look back the grave, gasps, grabs your arm. You follow her line of sight and bite back a gasp of your own.

Barney is gone, bag and all. Anger rises up in your chest until Georgia looks up at you in joyful awe.

"Daddy!" she whispers, "He was here!"

"Who was here?"

"Sherlock of course!" she exclaims, "I knew it! He's not dead! I'm _telling_ you, he's not!"

No matter what you think, you say nothing, not wanting to ruin her happy moment. You just put an arm around her shoulders and lead her out of the cemetery, her joy becoming infectious.

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><p><em><strong>So there it is! Reviews and concrit make as happy as a Sherlock with a case.<strong>_


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